


Heartaches By The Number

by Droog



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Frenemies, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unrequited Love(?)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:46:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26418187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Droog/pseuds/Droog
Summary: Arcade sincerely hated assumptions about himself. It ruined his work environment, it ruined his love life, and it definitely ruined his ability to take even the simplest man at face value. How was that fair to him? He supposed nobody really cared, but it bothered him nonetheless. Craig Boone was just another drop of ignorance in the vast sea of endless wasteland stupidity.However, Arcade was simply a man. A man under the influence with a draft in his heart.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Arcade Gannon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12





	1. Heartache #1

**Author's Note:**

> When in Rome, et cetera.
> 
> Edit: I didn't proofread this very well, so I'll be rewriting and editing it quite a bit. Hopefully it will read a little better!

He couldn't stand more than 10 minutes of the loathsome aura Boone exuded on a daily basis. Arcade was self-deprecating and somewhat bitter, sure, but he didn't drown himself in it. Their mutual companion had even made a passing comment once about Boone being allergic to smiling. He only laughed a little bit. That was only because Boone had been standing across the room from them at the time, much like how they sat across from each other in the present within the confines of their room at the Lucky 38.

The pencil in his hand rapped against his skull, eyes squinted in frustration.

"I just don't understand this," he complained to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "How have I been experimenting with medicinal research for years and I can't even figure out how to synthesize anything properly? I understand the original compounds, I've done the math on how to replicate the results with wasteland flora, but the _second_ I start making new headway it all falls back apart. This is hopeless! Just hopeless. An absolute waste of my time that I will continue wasting my time on, because clearly I love to torture myself."

"You talk a lot."

Arcade huffed indignantly, a slender finger tapping loudly on his desk. He hadn't even been speaking to Boone, and yet there he was. Interrupting.

"Not all of us live in our heads, Boone." he replied snidely. "You'd be surprised how sane speaking can keep you. Although right now I'd prefer you'd go back to being stoic and silent, as I don't recall addressing you."

All he received in return was an amused snort. Sometimes he felt like Boone just picked at him to get a rise, considering all their interactions tended to run the same route: Arcade talks to himself, Boone stares at him like he's grown a second head, Boone makes an unintelligent remark, Arcade gets irritated vocally, Boone plays off the charade that he doesn't find it funny and continues whatever benign task he had been doing. A predictable, maddening cycle that he would have to nag Six's ear off about some day soon. He was getting too old for the same nonsense every time Six left them alone at the suite together.

"I dunno, seems like you could use a second opinion, doc." Boone needled.

The pencil was laid down onto a clipboard with more force than necessary.

"Is that so?" Arcade smiled with a pinch of venom. "Please, let me in on this intelligent side of you I appear to have skimmed over. I'm sure whatever piece of advice you have for me is completely relevant to what I am _trying_ to accomplish and isn't portentous or pejorative at all. Assuming you know what those words mean, of course, since I'm fairly certain your vocabulary includes 50 words maximum."

Boone sniffed blandly.

"Just because you know the math doesn't mean you know what you're doing. I don't do geometry every time I take a shot."

Normally Arcade would have mouthed off another witty remark. That was to say, normally Boone didn't actually have a point. The more he spun it around in his head, the more he realized he had been approaching his research rather inefficiently. What good was research if there were no trials? He'd been hesitant to test any of his experimental medicines on human beings, but there were other options available until he could trust the results enough to do so. That or he could try and talk Boone or Six into rolling up a sleeve for him. Another time, perhaps, when the risk of poisoning didn't outweigh the potential for being hilarious.

"Don't expect me to say this to you ever again, but you're right." Arcade picked up his pencil to get back to work, but before graphite could hit paper he peered over the top of his ancient glasses. "Thank you."

Although he expected some jeer as a response, he was instead graced with pleasant silence. He tried not to let the slight upturn of his lips be too noticeable.

* * *

"I meant to ask you something about what you said earlier."

Boone didn't move from cleaning his rifle atop his footlocker, but he did offer a glance up and a barely raised eyebrow. Arcade, propped up in his bed, had his nose buried in his tattered issue of _Today's Physician_. Boone's eyebrow raised a little higher.

"Where did you read about geometry? I can't say I was ever particularly interested in it; I care more for the spatial aspect of geometrics than the measurement of shapes and all that."

Arcade peered over the edge of his magazine when the air remained still. After a lengthy pause, Boone responded with some put out exhale and returned his gaze to his weapon. He wiped the grime off carefully for a moment or two, the gears in his head turning before he finally managed to spit out the answer he'd been formulating behind that thick skull.

"I didn't. Some of us in 1st Recon decided numbers were better to rely on than a trained eye." he grumbled. "Didn't care for'em. Never let the spotter do their job and just wound up being a liability."

"It sounds like they should've been more interested in working with explosives. You get to do complicated equations by yourself _and_ you get to ruin people's day. Hopefully on purpose."

A mere grunt of agreement was all he got.

He sighed, closing his reading material and setting it in his blanketed lap. Out of habit he smoothed out the wrinkles and creases around his legs, perhaps hoping in some way it would eradicate the wrinkles and creases in the fabric of their forced companionship. It didn't, of course, but it did give him a ( ~~possibly terrible~~ ) brilliant idea.

The courier's voice echoed in his head: _when in doubt, drink it out_.

"Well, I think I've fried my brain effectively enough for today." he pretended to yawn, stretching out his arms before tossing the comforter off himself. "If you need to avoid me, I'll be in the kitchen lifting my spirits with some spirits. You have an open invitation to join me if you'd like."

With that said, he slung long legs over the edge of the mattress and hoisted himself up. He nodded without acknowledgement at Boone and made the short trek to the kitchen.

The second fridge held a frightening collection of alcohol. He often interposed himself on the way Six greedily snatched up any liquor that wasn't tied down or behind a monetary paywall, but all the scolding and lecturing in the world couldn't keep an alcoholic from raiding cabinets free of charge. It came with the territory, he supposed; Six was a beaten and broken man despite his upbeat nature. Everyone deserved a vice or two for the troubles of the wasteland. His sat neatly on the top shelf in the form of a rather vintage bottle of wine that had yet to be opened. Surely Six wouldn't mind... After all, that force of nature practically lived off whiskey and not much else.

Actually, now that he thought about it, he couldn't quite understand why Six had such a vast array of drinks when he never touched any of it. Maybe it was just a rainy day fund for when the well of whiskey inevitably went dry? Oh well; despite the fact it was very much his business as the man's personal doctor, it really wasn't. He had his own proclivities to worry about while his patient was away.

* * *

Arcade startled slightly at the intrusion of footsteps into the dining room a few hours into his relaxation efforts.

"Sorry," Boone mumbled, shuffling awkwardly towards the second fridge. "Used to treading light."

To the surprise of all two people in the room, Arcade refrained from commentary and refocused on his burnt reading material while he took a calming sip from his glass. He tended to be much less aware of sounds when he drank, but that was approximately nobody's business.

It went without saying that any buffer on his fight or flight response was taken with thanks and grace. Boone could relate heavily, but that remained unmentioned. Instead of attempting to soften the impact of a deadly soldier entering a room quietly enough to frighten a hound, he swiped the opened bottle of wine from the top shelf and took a few swigs. It was refreshing to taste fruity wood instead of desert grit between his teeth.

"You shouldn't drink wine like that."

Boone couldn't help his blatant confusion when he turned his head. Arcade hadn't even been looking at him.

"It's just... You'll probably gag or something. Wine really isn't meant to be chugged from the bottle." he sighed, sweeping a damp palm over his forehead to slick back unruly waves. "It's already a disgusting drink for elitists, so don't ruin it more for yourself. Well, you shouldn't chug anything with alcohol in it, but you know what I mean. You can't really enjoy being intoxicated when you're hunched over the toilet."

The former soldier definitely preferred the doctor when he sounded less sure of his word choices. Still, even in his mind, _I like you better when you drink_ just wasn't a polite statement to make.

"And call me whatever you want, but that's quality wine and I don't appreciate you guzzling it down like a dying dog. But, hey, _carpe noctem_ I guess."

Boone couldn't help the slight twitch in his cheek at the phrase. Six had already told him a thousand times that Arcade was ' _just a really smart nerd_ ', but it still made his skin itch to hear a language he had long ago associated with suffering and death. He sighed through his nose, willing angry thoughts back in the corner of his mind where they belonged.

"I thought it was _carpe diem_."

"No, that means 'seize the day'." Arcade corrected with a dismissive wave of the hand. "I said 'seize the night'. They basically mean the same thing, besides what time it is. Although _carpe noctem_ is more apt, for example, when someone blacks out after running out on their tab at Gomorrah and wakes up in the fountain outside the Ultra Luxe dressed like a hooker."

The sniper squinted at how oddly specific the example was.

"Don't ask. I don't know what Six would do without me at this point." he mused, closing his book to set it aside on the dining table and rest his cheek in his palm. "Probably die of alcohol poisoning. Or die of regular poisoning trying to save a nightstalker pup caught in a bear trap. Again."

Boone couldn't relate to such selfless devotion like the courier, but he admired it silently. Even when death was certain, and even though Boone himself couldn't quite understand why, Six had a bleeding heart of gold that kept him going. It was the only reason Boone had even considered traveling with someone that had their brain redecorated by a bullet. If nothing else, he could certainly drink to that. So he did.

Arcade was right. Wine was somehow more disgusting to drink from the bottle than actual liquor.

As an amicable silence settled over them, Boone rest against the workbench beside the fridge and observed his roommate. Despite the obvious flush on his cheeks from alcohol, he couldn't help but notice the nostalgic smile and blush the doctor found himself plagued with, soft eyes focused on the table in front of him. Boone was never a genius at social cues, but that didn't make him incapable of noticing when someone had it _bad_ for someone else. It made sense, honestly: a book smart and socially inept doctor falling head over heels for the most ham-fisted, brickheaded, empathetic silver tongue in the Mojave.

The sweetness of it all was a little too much for him. He drained the bottle until it was empty, trying his damnedest not to slam it down on the bench afterwards.

"Or blow himself to Hell." Boone finally grunted in response.

" _Haha_ , yeah." Arcade laughed sarcastically, finally turning his chair to face Boone. "Unfortunately my being there has absolutely no buffer on that particular line of decision-making, despite what he may have told me in the beginning. I don't imagine he cares very much, considering he isn't going to be getting any handsomer. I just wish he had an extra brain cell to spare about it when I happen to be standing right behind him."

Boone felt the warmth of alcohol settling into his face at last, gaze relaxed on his chatty associate.

"I'll be honest, sometimes I envy your long range expertise. I hardly have to treat burn wounds on you. But, poor Rex..." the doctor murmured. "Well, at least his cybernetic enhancements don't require a healing touch. That and he always seems to know when Six is about to do something unbelievably stupid."

"No shit." Boone snorted. "Back in the NCR they used to joke about the guard dogs having a sixth sense. I think they're just smarter than everyone else."

"Well, not necessarily. They're just more attuned to the world than your average man, I suppose. They also have no obligations to lie about the danger they feel."

That was a good point. Soldiers tended to stretch the truth or just lie completely about the facts of the situation. He'd seen it himself more times than he could count during his service in the NCR. It was a coping mechanism, so he'd been told begrudgingly in a medical tent, for one to downplay their stress and the possibility of imminent doom when it became a consistent threat. Humans could only handle so much. Dogs, on the other hand, felt no need to kid themselves and only valued their lives along with the well-being of the pack.

"I had my reservations about Rex, but..." Arcade stewed in thought for a moment, arms crossed and one leg thrown over the other. "He's a good dog. I trust him to keep Six safe. Besides, I had to carry his new brain all the way to Jacobstown, so I guess I owe him some leeway."

The ex-soldier shrugged, not quite following the other man's logic.

"He's just a dog."

"Oh, uh- Sorry. I know I talk a lot about nothing, I'm just not used to actually speaking to other people yet." the doctor backpedaled smoothly, stretching out his arms to fold his hands together. "Back at the Fort, I was mostly just reading lines back to books. Better than talking to myself like some of my patients, I guess."

Boone frowned.

Arcade frowned in response, ultimately deciding to shut his mouth for the duration of the silence.

"There's nothing wrong with talking to yourself." the retired soldier finally spoke up, eyes moving to the table. "Sometimes you're all you've got."

 _Damn it._ Of course, the _moment_ he sparked a civil conversation with Boone, he completely ruined it by sticking both of his feet in his mouth at the same time. _Typical, Arcade. Rely on that tried and true bedside manner of yours._

"I'm going to bed."

The doctor was so wrapped up in his head that he let the man leave without another word. It seemed the rest of his night would be dedicated to rehearsing apologies to himself for the morning to come.


	2. Heartache #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two ex-NCR guys walk into a bar...

Boone had been kidding himself.

After two hours of failing to trick himself into the empty static of unconsciousness, he slumped out of bed quietly and turned to where Arcade laid snoring softly. Still asleep. _Good_. With that nugget of info tucked away under his beret, he dragged himself silently to the elevator. The _ding_ of the lift broke the silence for a mere moment. He stepped inside, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the mirrors lining the other walls while he punched the button for the lounge floor. Pre-War technology or not, he fucking hated elevators. He couldn't step out fast enough once the doors finally parted for him again.

A full body shiver overtook him immediately. Without a shirt, the chilly air of the lounge at night was enough to reach his bones a little bit. Fortunately he already knew how to fix that problem. He shuffled into the open area and bee lined for the bar to his left, every flask littering the surface empty except for one full to the neck and another halfway drained.

It was a half a bottle of whiskey kind of night.

He snatched it up swiftly, heading to the couches in front of the elevator and flopping down on the closest one. He pulled the lid off unceremoniously, giving himself a good swig. No, it was two until he set it down loudly on the low wooden table.

It felt good to be able to make noise. Arcade couldn't complain about him tossing too much in his sleep or getting up randomly in the middle of the night if he was on a completely different floor of the building. _Gannon..._

Even when they weren't near each other, the name made his face itch. He had avoided the medical tents like the plague when he was in service for a good reason. Doctors were always doctors, on duty or not. They all hid behind walls of some kind, either talking you in circles or making everything about your health. Arcade Gannon was no different. He drank to that thought.

While they had originally been on better terms due to their shared vocalized hatred of the Legion, that was before Arcade started to act like... himself.

Almost everything he talked about went over Boone's head. Even hearing the man speak to himself when he was frustrated made his head spin, streams of words and random phrases in a language he hated and couldn't even understand. They probably would've been better off if Arcade had just never said a damn thing to him in Latin. Every time he heard it, all he wanted to do was break something. Six had to assure him many, many times that the doctor just had a genuine interest in it that wasn't worth stabbing someone over, but that didn't make it much better.

He drank to that too.

The one thing he hated the most was that Arcade genuinely didn't deserve some of the ire Boone felt for him. Craig Boone was not a good man, or a kind one. He had accepted that about himself already. Arcade Gannon was a genuinely pure soul that had made it his life goal to better the Mojave any way he could. He was mouthy, annoying, and nagged at him like they were married... Despite all of that, he didn't let those things define his character. When Boone limped into the Lucky 38 battered and bruised, Arcade patched him up without batting an eyelash. The doctor didn't let grievances get in the way of his compassion or sense of duty for even a moment.

It wasn't as if the man had intended to hit a nerve. Arcade always talked to himself, and the remark had been harmless. It was just different when you talked to yourself to fill the void in the air that wasn't there before. For junkies it was the hole left by addiction, and for him it was...

_Ding._

Boone stiffened up as the elevator doors opened, but the tension was gone as soon as it came.

Of course, it was just Arcade. He walked into the lounge in a noticeable effort to not appear uneasy, stopping before he got too close for his own comfort. Boone was more than welcome to let him stand there for a moment or two before acknowledging his presence, but the silence was broken immediately.

"There's no point in trying to be quiet if you're going to wake me up with that noisy elevator, you know."

Boone raised a dismissive eyebrow. The one thing he had tried to get away from had followed him all the way up the elevator to ruin his buzz, just as a little 'fuck you'. The growing guilt he felt about not being fond of the doctor more or less evaporated.

"You came all the way up here to bitch at me about the elevator waking you up?"

Arcade scowled, exhaling through his nose and pinching the bridge of it beneath his glasses with eyes screwed shut.

"No, I came up here to apologize for upsetting you earlier." he grouched, crossing his arms over his stomach and staring Boone in the eyes. "I talk to myself too, you know. You hassle me about it constantly. Anyway, I'll leave you be now. Goodnight."

Arcade sighed again and turned to leave.

"Wait."

He didn't take the next step. He didn't turn around, either, but Boone hadn't asked him to do that. The doctor waited a good five seconds before the sniper finally spoke up again.

"Sit down."

Arcade turned a bit, stilling for a tense few moments before he carefully cleared the space between them and took a seat. He seemed suspicious, but that was par for the course. Nobody felt truly comfortable with a soldier giving them orders. Boone shook the flask at him with a clear message, but the doctor's frown contorted with mild disdain.

"Sorry, I don't really drink whiskey."

"You'll drink it anyway." Boone stated flatly. "Maybe it'll put some hair on your chest. Broaden your horizons, or whatever."

"Pardon me if I don't take advice about ' _broadening my horizons_ ' from the man that decided he didn't need a shirt on in an ancient freezer full of windows." Arcade argued, but accepted the pushy offer anyway, quietly wincing with regret. "I really don't understand how you two drink this stuff. There has to be something better to rot your liver with."

Boone remained silent until the doctor gave up stalling and forced down a swig. He groaned with disgust, passing the bottle back to the man that hid his morbid enjoyment well. It'd been a while since the retired soldier had drank with anyone, the current evening aside. Mostly because he didn't enjoy bars anymore, and Six had really hammered that nail back into the coffin the first time he'd seen the courier shitfaced.

"Your horizons feel any broader?" Boone jabbed in monotone, taking a gulp before he shoved the whiskey back in Arcade's direction.

"No, but I feel my dinner asking to join us at the table." the blond grumbled, reluctantly securing the flask against his burning chest. "The torture you put your digestive system through personally offends me."

"Doesn't bother me any." Boone shrugged.

Arcade contained his vast arsenal of retorts with another drink. Beatrix had lied to him; there was nothing 'acquired' about swill that set your esophagus on fire. Then again, she had also called him a pussy immediately after his disagreement. He set the flask down on the table, already preparing himself for the worst.

"The both of you are about the same in that regard." the doctor chided, wiping droplets of whiskey from his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

A hole burned in his stomach that he pointedly ignored. Arcade Gannon was not known for caring about pissing contests, but he would be damned if Boone got to see him spill his guts over a drink. He couldn't even remember the last time he had vomited. After all, he had always been blessed with a fairly non-existent gag reflex. Yes, it had helped him plenty of times in the past... Most of which he was sure Boone didn't want to hear about any time soon. The mere thought of the ex-NCR flustering irritably at the mentions of his past flings pulled a seedy smirk across his lips.

He remembered then, the particular reason why he tended not to partake in darker liquors. Six had likened him to the game of cat and mouse once. There was a vaguely shameful pleasure he took in toying with his prey, and occasionally the consequences of being too playful were lost on him in the moment.

"What's that look for?" Boone pierced his thoughts.

"Oh, sorry." Arcade offered insincerely, folding his hands in his lap and leaning back. "I was just thinking about something the courier said to me before. Was I staring?"

"You always stare." the younger man huffed. "I can tell. Makes my back itch when you do."

"Isn't it your job to stare at people?" the doctor retorted, amused expression betraying the fun he was having. "You're always listening, too. Have you ever noticed how I tend to be minding my own business before you decide to insert yourself into a conversation with me? I wonder what that's all about."

Boone narrowed his eyes, which Arcade noted with a blink weren't obscured by sunglasses for once. There was something dangerous lurking beneath those razor sharp greens.

"You can carry a full conversation with yourself." he argued, leaning forward to put the weight of his elbows on his knees with his fists knitted tightly in front of him. "Someone's gotta remind you how loud you're talking. Can't even hear myself think half the time."

Arcade smiled coyly, sinking a little further into his seat.

"You aren't the first man to tell me how distracting my voice is. I apologize for stealing your attention so frequently; I should have taken your feelings into consideration."

The couch legs beneath Boone creaked as he pulled his fists up to rest against his bottom lip, back arched in a way that Arcade assumed must have been as uncomfortable as it was enticing. At first he thought nothing of another man without a shirt on, but he had always been the type of doctor to give the male figure a less professional second glance. Soldiers cut very pleasant ones, after all.

"It's not a problem." Boone spoke up carefully. "You'll know when it is."

The blushing blond sucked in a breath as quietly as he could manage. That had spurred some feelings he found incredibly familiar, so he elected to conceal himself with one leg crossed over the other. It had occurred to him at that moment that he had willingly waltzed into a minefield that rivaled the artillery of the Boomers. How very intelligent of himself.

"I'm sure I will." Arcade reassured calmly. "However, you'll excuse me for questioning your judgment when you thought forcing whiskey down my throat would be a good idea."

Boone finally leaned all the way back in his seat, crossing his arms loosely over his bare chest.

"I didn't force you to do anything." he denied casually. "All I said was that you would. And you did."

The shrewd doctor squinted at him with a clear expression of skepticism. They were both at the mercy of each other's unceasing analyzing, and it seemed that Boone wasn't so against their little song and dance. Arcade absolutely ate it up.

"While that's technically true, I do believe you're being coy with me." the taller man announced, rolling his shoulders to sit up a little straighter. "How incredibly out of character for you, Boone."

There was a ghost of a grin on the sniper's lips.

"You don't know me, doc. I know you, though." Boone barely teased, but Arcade felt more like he'd had a knife pressed to his throat.

Oh, the Follower was well aware he stood out. He was a bright speck on the scorched earth he tread upon. Not that he did much traveling anymore; he had far too many living beings to avoid at the Old Mormon Fort, let alone the entire Mojave. Still, he found it strange that Boone had only brought it up in the moment.

Wait... Boone was on night watch in Novac, right? That didn't make sense; he had only ever visited Daisy during the day.

"It's a joke." he finally continued, uninterested in why Arcade looked like he was about to puke. "All I know is you're a Follower. Like that guy Ignacio back at HELIOS One, the Follower that kept quiet about the weapon in there."

Arcade swallowed reflexively, unsure how to gauge the response.

"What?" Boone deadpanned, plucking the flask from the table. "I get it, it's fine. Six should teach you how to relax some time."

Was... Was Boone testing him or something?

"The worst you do is get on my nerves."

"Yes, I'm fairly good at that." the doctor squinted, pushing his glasses a little further up his nose. "You're easy to fluster. I've simply learned to appreciate it when I can. Although I fail to see how narrating my own life and teasing you are all it takes to ' _get on your nerves_ '."

It was Boone's turn to narrow his eyes, taking a measured sip from the flask.

"Yesterday you told me twice that I need to bleach my socks." he grunted. "You nag me like we're married."

"I nag you like your doctor." Arcade corrected. "If we were married I would just do it myself without telling you. No need for formalities if we've tied the knot already, don't you think? I'll just passive aggressively abuse you at my leisure in exchange."

Boone snorted.

"Well, you'd be the perfect housewife." he taunted, kicking his feet up over the arm of the couch. "If you'd shut up for a few days you could probably settle down. You put your foot in your mouth a lot."

The genuine soft smile on Arcade's face caught him off guard. He had the same wistful glaze as before, turning his attention to the massive window keeping the howling Mojave winds out. Boone frowned when he followed suit only to be met with his own reflection.

"I think I prefer how I'm living right now." the Follower's voice broke the silence. " _Per angusta ad augusta_. It's better to fight for the life you want instead of waiting for it to find you, isn't it?"

Contrary to popular belief, Arcade truly couldn't see himself settling down anymore. Six had given him a taste for wanderlust and it made the Mojave just a little less miserable to exist in. Though, on the same note, he had suddenly found the concept of travelling alone a little bit hollow. The feeling gnawed at his stomach. He sighed deeply despite himself, uncrossing his long legs to relax them instead.

"Even if it's exhausting."

Boone's frown deepened.

"You're a good guy, Gannon."

Arcade looked at him like he'd grown a second head. It only bothered him a little bit that the doctor had been shocked, but it wasn't unexpected. He wasn't a social butterfly despite what Six dragged out of him with small talk. Honestly, the guy just never shut the hell up.

"What?" the doctor sputtered.

Boone took a small amount of pride in managing to leave the smartest man in any room near speechless. It reminded him of the first time Six had ever heard him actually tell a joke. The disbelief had almost been offensive, but he rarely showed a shred of humanity. There was never anything worthwhile to benefit from it.

He felt... weird. The whiskey settled strangely in his stomach. At least, he told himself it was the whiskey. Without a social crutch to lean on, his urge to get personal withered and shriveled away.

He couldn't do it.

"Nothing." he shrugged. "M'drunk and cold. Gonna go back to bed."

His legs slung down to the floor louder than he intended as he slapped the flask down on the table and stood abruptly, effectively startling the other man. Arcade barely managed a noise of confusion before Boone had already beelined to the elevator.

"Night, Gannon." he blurted over his shoulder.

He jabbed the button and clambered in faster than he preferred, but the unease of sticking around the Follower would've made him feel sicker. It occurred to him during his descent that they would still be sharing a room for the night until the courier returned in the morning. His spinning head and the box of mirrors only doubling his nausea, he stumbled into the spare bedroom - Arcade had left the lights off, bless him - and hid with eyes screwed shut under his tattered sheets.

What felt like hours later, the sound of the elevator disturbed him. He listened to footsteps ungracefully padding to the other bed, the creak of springs, followed by a shallow sigh and silence.

The eventual return of gentle snoring lulled him into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
